


Fire With Fire

by sixtysevenlmpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cursed Dean, Dirty Talk, Dominant Sam, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Spells & Enchantments, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:23:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixtysevenlmpala/pseuds/sixtysevenlmpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys are hit by a spell that causes Sam to burn Dean every time he touches him. Neither is particularly happy about it. Discovery of feelings ensues. (And also porn... obviously)<br/>Originally posted on <a href="http://sixtysevenlmpala.tumblr.com/post/52662240610/provisional-title-fire-with-fire-summary-the">tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire With Fire

It was a routine case, at first glance. Pretty boring, actually; they’d only picked it up because they just happened to be in the area. A nineteen-year-old witch with a feisty temper and a tendency to run through guys faster than she changes clothes, prone to overreacting when she’s ditched for her cheating ways. One guy started spewing tadpoles whenever he tried to speak, one developed a slew of boils overnight that refused to stop multiplying, and another an amusingly (“ _It’s not funny, Dean, stop laughing,”_ ) creative addition of udders to his body after heatedly branding her a cow.

No one died, though, so they’d just let her off with a warning – forced her to reverse all the spells she’d cast, ordered her to pack up her hoodoo shop and leave it all behind within a couple of days, otherwise they wouldn’t be so kind. And that had been that. Or so they thought.

Neither of them notices anything’s up until Sam passes Dean his bottle of Corona at a nameless bar an hour or so later. His fingertips just barely brush the back of Dean’s hand as he sets it down on their table, and Dean flinches, pulling his hand back when a sudden, fleeting streak of pain flashes across the skin there, as if he’s been just barely grazed by hot metal.

“Huh,” Dean says, staring at his own hand. “Weird.”

Sam frowns at him, seating himself opposite. “What?”

Running his fingertips over the spot, which had turned a vague pink but is already steadily fading. “Uh… nothin’, I guess.” The quick sting of pain had left as abruptly as it had appeared, so he just shrugs and says, “Pool?”

***

“For God’s sake, Dean.”

It’s a little later and they’re in the motel room, Dean feasting on a bucket of sticky, messy ribs that he managed to sniff out on the way back. He looks up with an affronted look on his face, mouth stuffed full, and Sam sighs, rolls his eyes and gets up from the little table, crosses to the bed Dean’s lounging on and wipes a cursory thumb across Dean’s cheek.

“You’re like a child,” he comments, and Dean thinks his thumb comes away with a smear of barbecue sauce, but he can’t really concentrate on it because he’s too busy jerking away from Sam’s touch, a pained hiss escaping his mouth.

It’s a little like what happened in the bar, the same feeling of being _burnt_ , scalded, but more intense, enough for him to curse and roll off the bed on the opposite side to Sam, holding his face.

“What is wrong with you?” Sam asks, exasperatedly following Dean as he strides over to the mirror and inspects his face. To Dean’s disgruntlement, there’s a stark red mark on his face exactly where Sam just touched him, a light burn taking the shape of his smudged thumbprint.

Sam’s face pops up over his reflection’s shoulder in the mirror, assessing his face uneasily. “Dude,” Dean barked, voice pinched in that way that only betrays his worry to Sam. “What the fuck was on your hands?!”

“Um,” Sam says blankly. “Nothing?”

“It doesn’t _look_ like nothin’,” Dean grumbles, scrubbing at the burn mark to no avail.

Sam rolls his eyes, still frowning at Dean’s face. “Okay,” Sam says patiently as he moves past Dean to slip into the bathroom. Dean hears the rush of water, then his brother reappears a minute later, drying his hands with a towel. “Thoroughly disinfected. If you’re having some kind of allergic reaction thing to something on my hands, it’s gone now. Alright?” Sam reasons, then reaches out and pokes Dean’s face.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean gripes, ducking away as he feels another scalding flash. The mirror shows another little burn mark, this time by his nose. “Dude,” he complains.

Sam stares at his hands. “It must be, like…” he trails off, shrugs. “A curse, maybe? Or a spell? From that witch?” Dean makes a _pff_ sound. “You did say some pretty rude stuff, Dean.”

“Did not.”

Sam sighs. “’Batshit crazy hoodoo bitch’ counts as pretty rude.”

Crossing his arms defiantly over his chest, Dean mutters, “Whatever.” His face brightens a little. “Hey, so, does it work if I touch you?”

He reaches out and Sam steps backwards but his back hits the wall, so Dean triumphantly grabs his arm, expecting a hiss of pain from his brother to match his own. Sam flinches in his grip, then smirks smugly. “Guess not.”

“Oh, what the hell?” Dean grumbles, poking stubbornly at Sam’s arm. “That’s just unfair.”

Sam just laughs at him, pulls out of his grasp and claps a comforting hand down on Dean’s shoulder. It takes a second, but the too-hot sensation seeps through the cotton of his t-shirt and he jerks away. “Look,” Sam says, “it’s no big deal. We’ll go back first thing in the morning, get her to reverse it or else, and everything’ll be normal again. Just go to sleep, alright?”

Dean mutters something about how he’d rather go back there right the hell now and give the bitch a piece of his mind, but there’s a fair amount of alcohol sloshing around in his brain and his eyes are already drooping. He ends up crashing on his bed a minute later, still dressed, and he dimly registers Sam pulling the covers over him before going to his own bed.

***

Dean jolts awake the next morning with an extremely unmanly yelp, blinking bleary eyes open to see Sam’s stricken, puppy-dog face. “Shit, I’m sorry,” Sam says quickly, “I totally forgot.”

There’s a scalding pain just above his wrist, and he looks down to see a red brand there in the shape of Sam’s fingers. He must’ve tried to wake him in the way he usually does if he’s first up, leaning across the gap between their beds and shaking Dean’s arm where it’s hanging off the side of the mattress.

“Looks worse than yesterday,” Sam comments, and Dean groans an agreement that makes his brother bite his lip.

“ _Feels_ worse,” he replies. “Hurts more with every one, think it’s some kinda time thing.”

Sam nods. “C’mon,” he says decisively as he stands up, “we’re going. Now.”

***

The drive is quiet. Sure, Dean’s got his AC/DC blaring out sufficiently loud, but they don’t talk much. The space between them feels charged with something that’s not usually there, and Dean wants to put it down to the spell, but a niggling feeling in the back of his mind says that’d be wrong.

It’s only about an hour’s journey, but Dean still manages to contract two new burns; one because Sam taps Dean’s knuckle where his hand’s sitting on the wheel to point something out to him, and another from when Sam inexplicably settles his hand next to Dean’s leg, two fingers resting comfortably on his knee. Dean doesn’t even notice the touch at first, but the burning soaks through his jeans like two drops of hot water and he curses, swerving the car. He calls Sam a bitch, and when Sam doesn’t give the expected response he turns to look at him, finds a wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look on his face as he stares at the dash, hands now clasped tight in his lap. Dean concentrates on the road.

As soon as they pull up outside, Dean beats a fist against the steering wheel and announces, “Well, that’s just great.” The windows are boarded, no sign of a light on inside. “The one time someone actually does what they’re supposed to. Goddamn.”

“She might not have left yet,” Sam reasons, getting out of the car and motioning for Dean to follow, “and anyway, there might be _something_ in there that could help.”

Dean rolls his eyes, unconvinced, but follows him into the shop. The fact that they have to bust the door open doesn’t exactly bode well, and he points that out, but Sam only shushes him. A routine check of the pokey shop from which the witch casted all her spells and cooked up all her potions tells them she’s well and truly gone – the place is locked up for good. “What the hell am I gonna do now?” Dean demands.

“Hey,” Sam says, reaching out for him and then thinking better of it. “It’ll be fine. We’ll call Bobby, or something.”

“Right. Before or after it gets so bad that I burst into flames when you high five me?” Dean grumbles, pulling Sam out of the shop.

As they climb back into the Impala, Dean catches Sam extracting something from the pocket of his jacket out of the corner of his eye, and he turns to look as Sam says, “Hey, get this.”

He’s holding a small, folded square of paper with looped handwriting scribbled across it, eyes flying over it. “What’s it say?”

“See for yourself,” Sam says, passing it. Dean can practically hear her nasally teenage girl voice as he reads:

 _Sam,_  
As you’ve most likely noticed, your brother has been put under a spell. Don’t get your panties in a twist – believe it or not, I actually did this to help you out a little. Seemed like you needed it. You’re welcome. And it’s not permanent. It will be broken as soon as he has learnt what should be obvious.  
xoxo,  
The batshit crazy hoodoo bitch.

Dean frowns. “Did you ask her to put the mojo on me or somethin’?”

“What? No, idiot.”

“Okay,” Dean says, concluding that he’s telling the truth because he can read him like a book when he lies, “so what the hell does it mean, then?”

“I—I don’t know,” Sam replies falteringly, eyes widening imperceptibly for a moment before they become downcast. Dean reckons he looks a little… well, panicked is the first word that comes to his mind. He pauses, but he doesn’t bring it up – just starts up his baby and cranks up the volume, dutifully ignores the way Sam’s practically pressed up against the passenger door, stretching the distance between them further than it’s ever been before.

***

A quick call to Bobby reveals that he’s never heard of a spell like it before, but that he’ll see what he can dig up, tells them he’ll call as soon as he finds anything but not without calling Dean an idjit as he hangs up.

So, they carry on, and Dean’s life becomes a series of painful events. Sam won’t let him even scout for the next case (“ _We’re not hunting ‘til I can stitch you up without cauterising you, Dean,”_ ) and so all that’s left to do is to sit around waiting for the next, inevitable time Sam’s hands brush across his skin and make him jump from his seat.

It fucking sucks.

And Sam’s so bad at _remembering_ – the same night, Sam caves and lets Dean drag them both to a bar to soothe Dean’s angry indignation at being put under a spell, and as they walk in, Sam’s hand settles at the small of his back. It’s not like he’s trying to guide him or anything – Dean’s walking in front, as usual – more like he’s simply keeping them linked, and in the half-second it takes for the heated pain to sink through to his skin, Dean doesn’t even register that it’s weird.

And, like. Obviously it’s weird. Of course it is. He arches his back forward away from the pain, whirls around and mutters, “Seriously?”

Sam just snatches his hand back as if _he’s_ the one being burnt, and mumbles, “Let’s just find a seat,” with pink-tipped ears.

Later on in the night, Dean’s hustling pool (more to blow off some steam than due to any monetary strain) and the guy he’s playing, a hulking rock of a man who Dean suspects lives on protein shakes alone, isn’t too happy with losing. He steps up into Dean’s space and grabs his jaw with one huge hand, then shoves him backward with a palm to his chest. Dean takes a moment to note that it seems to be only Sam that hurts him when he touches him as he stumbles backwards, losing his footing under the force of the push. Suddenly, though, Sam’s there, hand clamping down on the bare skin of Dean’s arm and one arm winding around his waist to steady him. Dean swears and roughly shoves him away as soon as he’s got his footing, cradling his scalded arm, and the wounded look on Sam’s face as he scurries back to their table tugs at something deep in his chest.

There’s the morning after, too, when Dean finally rouses from sleep with a pounding headache and a dry mouth to see Sam already up and about, tapping away on the laptop on the other bed. As soon as he notices Dean’s awake, he swings his legs over the side and asks with a smirk if he’s feeling rough, before reaching out and brushing a few strands of hair back from Dean’s forehead. He does it absently, clearly not even thinking about it, and Dean groggily realises as he flinches backwards that the gesture is one that Sam actually repeats quite a lot – if Dean’s hungover or sick or hurting – but, well, he never really noticed until now.

“God _damn_ it, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes widen and he stands abruptly. “I’m, uh. I’m goin’ out,” he mumbles, already heading for the door, and Dean doesn’t see him for the next four hours.

He doesn’t ask.

***

After a couple more days, they work out that the spell really does get worse with time, and now if Sam touches Dean at all, it makes an actual sizzling sound and more often than not Dean can’t help crying out with pain.

It means that Sam’s a lot more guarded, so much more careful about what he does with his hands. In fact, he’s so conscientious about it that he keeps as much space between them as possible at all times, as if he thinks the only way to refrain from touching Dean is to keep away from him altogether or something. Dean’s not really sure. He’s grateful for the effort, though, really he is, it’s just that… hell, it doesn’t _feel_ right.

He feels off-kilter, see. Unbalanced. Feels like someone’s taken hold of his world and tilted it just slightly, imperceptibly so, but enough to make it hard for him to stay upright.

When they’re sitting opposite each other in the diner a couple of blocks away from their motel, Dean observes how Sam’s gangly limbs would _usually_ have their knees knocking under the table – Dean would kick him, probably, and Sam would do it back – but now Sam somehow folds his too-long legs or sits at such an angle that means that doesn’t happen, and Dean’s a little surprised that he notices.

He notices a lot of the same, actually – there’s no casual shoulder bump when they’re walking alongside each other, no hard, warm line of Sam’s thigh pressed against his as they sit on the bumper of the Impala.

Dean tries to tell himself that it’s a good thing, that it’s better to have some personal space between brothers, that it’s annoying having Sam so close all the time, but somehow that sits as wrong as Sam stepping smartly back to make room for him as they switch for the shower instead of letting him brush past.

***

Dean’s growing increasingly irritable.

It’s been about a week, give or take. They’re in a pansy-ass coffee shop that Sam managed to find, and when Sam returns to their table and passes Dean his cardboard-encased cup without letting their fingers brush, it’s not just early-morning crankiness that makes him snap, “Oh, well done, assface, managed _not_ to singe me this time.”

Sam sighs at him, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shut up, Dean. I haven’t touched you in days.”

And Dean wonders if that’s not the problem.

Initially, he thought the cause of his perpetual bad mood was that he had to constantly be worried about when he was next going to be burnt, _plus_ the fact that he still doesn’t know what the witch meant when she said he should be learning something, but he’s beginning to think that, well, maybe it’s the fact that he’s _not_ getting burnt all the time.

Well, okay, no, that’s not right. Dean can definitely live without the burning. But the thing is, if he’s real honest with himself, he never realised how goddamn often Sam touched him – little pats on the shoulder, fingers drumming on his knee, hand insistently tapping his own. He just never registered any of it before; presumably ‘cause it’d been going on for years, and since Sam came back from Stanford, they’ve just fallen back into the same old habits. Dean guesses he’s just come to live with it over the years, to the point where he stopped noticing.

But when every touch resulted in yet another angry, stinging red mark on his skin, he couldn’t exactly _not_ notice it, okay, and maybe now that Sam’s got himself together enough to stop altogether, maybe Dean misses it. Okay? Maybe he misses the familiarity, hell, the _tenderness_ of those slight brushes of Sam’s fingers.

Maybe.

He shakes the thoughts out of his head and looks over at Sam, who’s looking pretty down. He’s been acting downright miserable in recent days, actually, and Dean thinks maybe he’s bummed about the lack of physical contact, too – but that doesn’t really make sense to him, ‘cause he can still hug Sam as long as Sam doesn’t hug him back.

Whatever. Sam’s always been weird.

He clears his throat. “You really got no idea what that hoodoo chick meant?” he asks. “’as soon as he’s learnt what should be obvious’?”

Sam shrugs, meeting his eyes quickly before looking down into the steam of his coffee. “No,” he replies. “Why would I know what it means, Dean? Why d’you keep asking me?”

Dean frowns. “Uh, who else would I ask?” he says slowly, perplexed at the defensive tone of his brother’s voice. “Dude, are you okay?”

He watches as Sam clenches his jaw. “I’m going to the bathroom,” Sam mutters, then practically flees his seat, and Dean guesses that’s the conversation over.

“Huh,” Dean says.

***

So, the thing is, Sam’s no help. Every time Dean asks him what he thinks the witch meant, how he’s meant to break this stupid goddamn spell, he clams up, gets all weird and won’t offer up anything remotely constructive.

The frustration and the need to figure it out builds up inside Dean, constant mantra in his mind of _as soon as he’s learnt what should be obvious_ and _I actually did this to help you out a little, Sam,_ so he really, really doesn’t think he can be blamed when he eventually erupts.

He’s pacing the motel room, muttering things about witches and burns and spell patterns and why the hell Bobby hasn’t called yet, and Sam’s just sitting on the foot of Dean’s bed, watching him go past again and again, and in his peripheral Dean sees his hand come up just as he passes, then it falters and he tucks it back into his lap. Dean stops in front of him and pins him with a stare.

“Right there! I mean, goddamn it, Sam,” he explodes, wildly gesticulating with his arms, “why the hell _do_ you feel the need to fuckin’ touch me so much?!”

Sam looks up at him and Dean watches his throat work around a nervous swallow. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam replies, voice too low, too controlled, too measured.

“Oh come _on_ , dude,” Dean says, exasperated. “I’m covered in burnmarks.”

“I… Dean,” Sam says helplessly, standing up, and Dean’s so close that they’re almost chest to chest. Sam takes a breath and slips away, skulking to the opposite side of the room. “I don’t—I don’t wanna talk about this.”

Dean’s glare is hard and fixed on him, intent on figuring it out, figuring _him_ out, when suddenly his phone rings in his pocket, startling them both. Dean sighs and puts it on speakerphone. “Hey, Bobby. What’ve you got?” he asks, eyes not leaving Sam’s.

Bobby’s voice comes down the line, sounding tinny and uncomfortable. “Well… look, I found somethin’, but I’m not sure if it’s… appropriate.”

“Hit me anyway.”

Pause. “There’s a spell that sounds kinda similar to the mojo on you – a fairly modern one. Ah, it’s… it’s meant to be a kinda… wake up call.”

“Wake up call?” Dean repeats, confused, and Sam turns away, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Yeah. According to the lore, it makes ya ‘burn with every touch’ of someone who has, uh… hidden, intense feelin’s. For you. And it don’t go away ‘til _you_ realise those feelin’s are there. Witches usually cast it for ‘emselves, but it can be cast on behalf of someone else, too.” Another pause. “Look, boy, I’m not gonna comment on the fact that you said it was Sam burnin’ ya. It’s… not my business, and honestly, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. I’ve told ya what I know, and that’s as far in as I’m goin’ with this. You good?”

Dean swallows, having kind of forgotten how to talk. “Uh,” he mumbles, staring at the back of Sam’s head. “Thanks, Bobby.”

He hangs up.

Sam doesn’t turn around, and Dean keeps staring at him, waiting for the cogs in his brain to turn.

 All of a sudden, his face clears, jaw going slack. It’s like someone switches a lightbulb on in the dark recesses of his mind, and he’s looking at Sam with a half-open mouth, wondering if he’s on the right track, wondering if Bobby could possibly mean what he thinks he means. The touches; the amount and the gentleness of them, the caring in Sam’s gestures – the way Sam became so withdrawn when he couldn’t do that anymore—

_I actually did this to help you out a little, Sam—_

“Is that what she meant?” Dean demands. His palms are clammy. “The stroppy mojo teen? ‘What should be obvious’? Is it you?”

Sam turns slowly. “Dean—“

“Tell me.”

“I _can’t_ —“

“This really, really obvious thing I should be learning – is it that you touch me so much ‘cause you… what, you feel safe? Secure?”

Sam says nothing.

Dean swallows. “’Cause you think I’m hot?”

Sam runs two agitated hands through his hair. “ _Stop_ it!” he yells.

“’Cause you get the same fucked-up, twisted feeling in your stomach when you do it as I do whenever I so much as _look_ at you and your stupid goddamn face?” Dean presses, heart pounding in his chest.

Sam’s eyes are shining a little as he surveys Dean cautiously from across the room, arms hanging limp t his sides. “What?” he whispers.

“All of the above?” Dean asks, taking a step forward. “’Cause I know how that goes.”

“You don’t… Dean, come on. You don’t mean that, Jesus.”

“Then why would I _say_ it?!” Dean shouts, exhausted and tired of the charades, tired of the denials. Sam doesn’t seem to have an answer for that, and Dean lets the flicker of triumph take over him as he strides forward and mutters, “Hands off or I’ll punch you,” before grabbing two fistfuls of Sam’s shirt and hauling him into a kiss.

Sam makes a surprised, weak noise against Dean’s mouth, but he doesn’t pull away, so Dean does the only thing he can possibly think of doing, slides his hands up around the back of Sam’s neck and kisses him deeper, pressing forward. He never let himself so much as entertain this as a fantasy, despite how much he wanted it deep down inside, but now he lets himself give into it, licking into Sam’s mouth like he doesn’t want to miss one bit.

Sam’s whimpering a little into his mouth, trying so hard to stay in control – his hands are balled up into fists at his sides, Dean can see, and he’s completely rigid against Dean, spine so straight that Dean has to rock up onto his tiptoes more than he’s imagined before (okay, yeah, maybe he let himself think about it. Just once or twice).

Dean just slides his hands down to Sam’s ass, and when Sam gasps, “Dean,” he just hauls him forward, grinding their crotches together as they kiss. Sam moans and rolls his hips with the rhythm, Dean panting encouraging words into his mouth because God, he’s so hard and Sam is too and it feels so goddamn good— but eventually Sam pulls back and mutters, “Wait—stop, you gotta stop.”

Immediately, Dean steps back, stumbling a little on unsteady legs. “What’s wrong?” he asks gruffly, trying to mask the fear in those two little words. They’ve fucked up. _He’s_ fucked up. Fuck, mother _fuck_ what was he thinking oh Jesus fucking Christ—

“I can’t do it, I can’t—can’t hold back, I’m gonna hurt you,” Sam stammers softly. Before Dean can reply, Sam looks up with a new, almost mischievous glint in his eye that sends an uncertain thrill down Dean’s spine. “What if you go sit on the bed,” Sam says, slow and careful, with a hard, commanding edge to it that makes Dean flinch.

“What—why?” Dean asks, confused, even as he does exactly as he’s told.

Standing over him, about a couple of feet between them, Sam murmurs, “If I… would you do what I tell you to?”

Dean stares up at him, mouth drying up as he takes in the blatant, hot want swirling in Sam’s eyes and the nervous little lip bite. He doesn’t know exactly what he means, but he reckons he can hazard a rough guess, and he honestly has no clue as to what’s about to come out of his mouth before it does: “Why don’t you try me and find out?”

Sam licks his lips and backs up to flop down in a chair a few feet away from the bed, eyes on Dean the whole time. “Get your cock out.”

The words drip with sultry treacle and Dean wants so, so badly to take offence, to refuse simply on the grounds that he’s the big brother and he’s the one in charge here, but he can’t help but just scrabble at his fly, shove his jeans down enough to follow Sam’s order. Sam smiles at him, a genuine, face-splitting smile that feels all too sunny and easygoing for such a loaded moment, but somehow it fits just right.

“If I could touch you,” Sam muses softly, eyes pinned unashamedly to Dean’s fist wrapped tight around the base of his already stiff cock, flushed pink head peeking out over the top, “I think… I’d go fast, at first. Fast and hard. S’how you do it, isn’t it? At night. When you think I don’t hear.” Dean stares, slack-jawed. “The sheets rustle,” Sam offers with a wry smile, then, “show me.”

“Christ,” Dean mutters, because he can’t believe this is actually _happening_. Oddly, the fact that he’s jerking off in front of someone startles him more than that someone being his little brother; if he’s honest, that part was always, always inevitable. _This_ , though, this was never something he envisaged himself doing. He never thought he’d be touching himself for someone else – following their orders, no less – never thought it’d be so easy to get him licking his hand and wrapping it around his dick, never thought he’d be pumping his cock while his baby brother urged him softly to keep going.

“Yeah, like that,” Sam encourages him, leaning forward a little in the chair, and fuck does Dean want to kiss him right now, wants this to be his hand, wants those low, promising words whispered hot into his neck as Sam’s body covers his. He moans Sam’s name, a tinge of desperation to his tone, and his hand is a blur on his cock, friction almost too much to bear as he tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut. “No,” Sam says, “look at me,” so Dean does, biting his lip and stroking himself at the same rough pace. “Then I’d slow right down, loosen my grip, make you whine for it.”

“Sam…” Dean mutters, eyes pleading, but Sam says, “Do it.”

Cursing under his breath, Dean eases off, forcing himself to relax his fist a little, enough for the perfect friction from before to die down into a teasing flutter of touches as he strokes himself. His toes curl in his boots, a shudder running through his whole body as he clenches his jaw and tries to restrain his hips from jerking up, cock twitching in his too-loose grasp like it’s begging to be grasped.

After a minute or so, Dean whimpers, sweat beading on his forehead, and Sam says, “Yeah,” so husky and turned-on that Dean inadvertently does it all over again. “I’d make you go crazy for it. Make you beg. Look at you, trying so hard to stay in charge—fuck, Dean.” Dean’s watching Sam watch him, can’t take his eyes off how fucked-out Sam looks just from this, just from seeing Dean like this, and the knowledge makes him hot all over. “I’d tease you good. Touch just the head with my fingertips, ‘til you were trembling.”

There’s no order in his words, but it’s heavily implied. “Fucking hell,” Dean mumbles weakly, and Sam laughs, playfully dangerous. But goddamn it, Dean does it – wrenches his hand from his shaft and trails his fingertips up until they reach the flared head, massages the sensitive skin there with the pads of his fingers. He starts to shake almost instantly, the constant, concentrated attention too much for him to handle without feeling like he’s about to burst out of his skin, and the pre-come blurting out from the tip of his cock only slicks the way, heightens every single tiny touch of sensation. He’s whimpering, writhing on the edge of the bed and struggling to stay sitting upright, and when Sam speaks next, he almost misses it.

“I’d play with your slit,” Sam murmurs, a little breathless, “tease your balls, too, get you all fucking worked up for me to just touch you properly.”

Before he’s even done talking, Dean’s hands are scrambling to do as he says, mindless with pleasure and need and _holy shit Sammy._ He rubs his thumb cautiously over his slit, hissing through his teeth because he’s never tried that, never felt something so intensely sensitive that every hair on his body stood on end, and he moans as he does it again, swirls his thumb a little deeper and throwing his head back, other hand trailing over his balls. He wants to roll them in his palms, wants to tug and squeeze and _go to town_ but Sammy said to tease, and Dean can never say no.

 “God, wish that was me,” Sam growls. “You’ve got no idea, Dean, no clue what I’d be doing if I could just touch you. Wanna put my hands all over you, throw you up against the wall, pin you down by your hips while I put my mouth on your cock, fuck you ‘til you can’t do anything but say my name. God. Jesus, this is killing me.”

Dean moans an incoherent agreement, managing to gasp out, “S-Sam, please, c’mon, I need, I need to—more—“ He doesn’t know how much longer he can take it, the maddening tease of barely-there touches when all he wants is a firm hand – preferably Sam’s, but he’ll take what he can get given the circumstances – wrapped around his cock, pulling him to orgasm just fucking right.

“Told you I’d have you begging me,” Sam points out, smug bastard, and Dean just groans, his whole body trembling now, sweat soaking through his layers as his hips cant up off the bed, searching for friction that isn’t there.

“Come _on_ ,” Dean presses, not caring for shame in this moment, and Sam leans further forwards in his chair. Dean meets his gaze, bleary-eyed and panting, still teasing every throb from his cock because fuck, Sam hasn’t told him to stop.

“Okay,” Sam relents, voice soft. “Get yourself off, go on, wanna see you do it.”

Dean grunts out a moan as he finally circles a thick-fingered hand around his cock, tugging himself off in rapid, desperate strokes; a panicky, jerky rhythm that has him curling in on himself and shooting streaks of white all over his shirt in a matter of seconds. Sam’s name lives and dies on his lips in a breathless, gasping whisper.

“Jesus,” Sam mutters, “Jesus fuck, that was so hot,” and he’s hurrying to undo his jeans, struggling to tug the zipper down over the prominent bulge beneath the denim. It’s obvious, even to Dean’s sluggish, post-orgasm-hazy mind, what he’s planning on doing. Dean, however, has better ideas.

He slides off the bed and onto his knees, crawls the small distance between them until he’s kneeling between Sam’s spread legs on the chair, then reaches for Sam’s zipper, easing it down and reaching inside.

“Dean,” Sam says, a warning as Dean pulls his obscenely hard cock out of his jeans and dips his head close enough for his breath to wash out over it.

“No touching,” Dean reminds him, his voice gravelly and fucked-out. That’s all the warning he gives his brother before he drops his head and takes him matter-of-factly into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and lazily sinking down.

Dean just keeps his mouth sealed tight and lets himself get a little lost, head swimming – his mind is still a foggy, blissful blur, so he doesn’t really focus much on the details of the thing. He dimly registers a few, like that Sam’s cock stuffs his mouth full in a way he could never, ever have imagined; that Sam’s pre-come bursting on his tastebuds isn’t actually half as bad as he’d have expected; that Sam can’t seem to stop saying Dean’s name; that Sam’s hands are white-knuckling where he’s gripping the arms of the chair, restraining himself.

(It’s possible that he lets his chest flutter at that one – at how Sam remembers even now, how he cares so goddamn much.)

That’s pretty much it, until Sam cries out, “Oh _shit_ ,” and flails a hand out, grasping Dean’s shoulder with an iron grip, and Dean definitely notices that.

He makes a startled noise around Sam’s cock, expecting an agonising scald any second and pulling off at the same time as Sam’s eyes widen and he repeats the swear from a second ago.

“Oh shit, oh shit, I’m sorry,” Sam babbles, snatching his hand back, but Dean doesn’t move.

His mind may still be a few sandwiches short of a picnic right now, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t move because… it doesn’t hurt. “Dude,” he breathes hoarsely, staring at Sam.

“Wait, did that not—?” Sam asks, and Dean shakes his head.

Cautiously, Sam lowers his hand once more, instead settles it on the bare skin of Dean’s neck. Dean flinches out of habit but forces himself to stay put, and sure enough, there’s no sizzle, no pain, no angry red mark blotching onto Dean’s skin. They share an awed look, Dean’s face breaking into a slow, wide grin.

“’It will be broken as soon as he has learnt what should be obvious’,” Sam quotes. “Bobby did say it’d break when you figured out what the… uh. _Feelings_ were.”

Dean rolls his eyes at the fact that Sam can just reel that shit off when he’s literally in the middle of having his dick sucked, and mutters, “Yeah, well, maybe I get it now.”

Sam grins down at him, blinding and embarrassingly goofy, and before Dean even knows what the hell’s happening, he’s being literally plucked from the floor by huge hands under his arms, whisked through the air and thrown down onto the bed. Sam follows straight after, completely blanketing him head to toe, whole body pinning him to the bed. It’s just complete and utter _Sam_ all over him – Sam’s cock grinding hard and insistent into his hip, Sam’s manly, homely scent filling his nostrils, and goddamn, Sam’s fucking hands _everywhere._

It’s like he doesn’t know where to start: one second they’re combing through Dean’s short hair, the next a thumb is brushing the plumpness of Dean’s bottom lip, then stroking at his neck and his sides and running down his arms and cupping the still-soft-but-definitely-interested bulge of his cock through his underwear, jeans still open.

“Sam,” he mutters with a rough laugh, “Jesus _Christ_ ,” because seriously, it’s like a really fucking oversized puppy has him pinned down and is contenting itself with pawing him every which way for the rest of their days. But then Sam leans down to kiss him, hard and demanding and goddamn passionate as fuck, and yeah, it’s really not like that anymore.

Sam whimpers a little into his mouth, rocking his hips so his cock drags over the denim of Dean’s thighs. It can’t be comfortable, but Sam doesn’t seem to care, especially when Dean wriggles a hand between them and strokes him slow and steady.

They’re so ridiculously wrapped up in each other that Dean might laugh at Sam for it – he’s got both arms wound tightly around Dean, holding him so close it’s almost difficult to _breathe_ , let alone jerk him off properly – but he doesn’t because he can’t help but enjoy the closeness himself, the fact that the space between them is occupied only by their own body heat. Besides, he’s got his free arm slung around Sam’s neck, keeping him pressed in tight, mouth against Dean’s neck, so he can’t really judge.

It doesn’t take long – a few clever flicks of Dean’s wrist and a faltering mantra of, “Dean, Dean, Dean,” and suddenly Sam’s coming all over the both of them, shuddering out a gasp that he tucks away in Dean’s neck, and Dean smoothes a hand down his back, soothing him as he comes down.

“So,” Sam murmurs a few minutes later, when they’re sprawled next to each other on the bed, hands just barely touching.

“So,” Dean echoes, steeling himself before looking over at him, heart in his mouth.

Sam grins. “She still a batshit crazy hoodoo bitch?”

It takes a moment for Dean to even remember who he’s talking about, but when he does he rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Guess she’s alright,” he mutters nonchalantly. Sam just laughs, reaches over to trail lazy fingertips down Dean’s chest; and it’s a total pansy move, and Dean would totally call him out on it, but he lets him – just this once, because he can.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you liked!


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